A Satire, of Sorts
by Kaida the Dragon Goddess
Summary: Yuugi's a masochist and Ryou's abused...but there's a twist on these cliches that hopefully will entertain you...now featuring uber-abused Malik and psychotically protective Isis.
1. Yuugi angst

Hn. I suppose I'm (slightly) renowned as an angst author ... and don't worry, the rest of my stories will continue in remarkably similar fashion. And a my next installment in "Memories and Battle Scars" has just been posted with lots of bishie-angst, so if that's your cup of tea, go check it out and leave me a nice little review.

However, that's not what I wanted to discuss. I've noticed, in my navigation of the Yuugiou fandom, that most of the angst stories out there follow very similar storylines. And I suppose I'm being a hypocrite, since my Seto/Jou angst piece isn't precisely an original idea, but that's not the point I'm trying to make.

Consider this a satire, if you will. It'll be a series of drabbles, little short scenes easily misinterpreted. I hope I can make you laugh, or at least giggle. Enjoy!

(Insert disclaimer here)

Chapter One: Yuugi angst

He watched, entranced, at the sunlight playing patterns on the silver he held in his hand. So brilliant, so beautiful, so simple and so deadly. He envisioned, for a moment, crimson dulling the wicked glimmer, and he clenched his teeth tightly, pounding a small fist on his bedroom floor.

No. He had not come to this, not yet. He was stronger than this. He would prevail.

But tears of frustration prickled at the corners of his larger violet eyes, and he bit back a cry of pure, unadulterated rage. Everything hurt. He'd been lying on this damned floor for hours, fighting the tears that threatened to spill down his pale cheeks. He was sick of crying, sick of being the overemotional one to his yami's stoic impassivity, sick of _everything_.

He closed his eyes and rested his chin on the floor, inhaling and exhaling deeply, trying to calm himself.

It wasn't working.

"Rrrrgh!" he growled in frustration, aiming a furious punch at the already-battered wall. Pain exploded in his knuckles and he gasped, cradling the wounded hand to his chest. His fingers closed around the hilt of his weapon and he raised it, admiring once again its delicate, mocking glimmer.

The door swung open.

Yuugi froze, staring into startled crimson eyes. Yami was standing in his doorway, feet rooted to the ground, mouth slightly agape as he took in the scene before him. "Oh, aibou," he whispered sadly.

He crossed the room, gathering his hikari into his arms, pressing Yuugi's tear-streaked face to his chest. "You don't have to do this," he whispered into Yuugi's hair. "Please, aibou, you're only making it worse. What are you doing?"

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Yuugi exploded, hurling the screwdriver at his yami, shoving the ex-pharaoh away. "I'm trying to fix the damned outlet!"

Yami had to stifle a laugh. There Yuugi was, lying amidst wires and chunks of sheetrock, with a partially-dissected wall boasting evidence of Yuugi's frustration in a series of tiny dents along the baseboard. "Something tells me you're not doing it right, aibou."

A/N: (grins) Heh.


	2. Ryou angst

Chapter Two: Ryou angst

Ryou bit back a whimper as Yuugi pulled up the sleeve of his ever-present sweater. The little hikari ran astonished fingers over the swollen, bruised flesh, gasping sympathetically. "Ryou ... what happened?"

Ryou couldn't meet his friend's eyes. "Nothing," he whispered, suddenly glad for the thick mass of hair that hid his face. "I'm alright, really." He pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly at the burning pain that shot up his lower back. Yuugi grabbed his wrist.

"Ryou, wait. Please, don't walk away from me. Tell me what happened."

"A fall, that's all."

Yuugi slid a hand under Ryou's shirt, baring the mottled purple blotches that defiled his alabaster skin. "This looks like a little more than a 'fall,' Ryou." Ryou flinched away from his touch, jerking his shirt back down.

"Please, Yuugi, don't."

"Why, Ryou?" Yuugi's eyes were pleading, boring into his friend's with an intensity Ryou had never imagined the little hikari possessing. "Why are you doing this?"

Yami snorted, glaring daggers at the back of Bakura's ponytailed head. "This is all his fault."

"No!" Ryou protested, shaking his white locks furiously. "No, don't blame him! It ... it's not really ... "

"Answer Yuugi's question," Yami said mildly, arching an eyebrow at Ryou. "Why put up with this?"

"I ... I just want Bakura to notice me." He glanced down at his Converse-clad feet. "It's stupid, I know, but ... "he shrugged. "I can't help the way I feel."

"And you think putting yourself through this will make Bakura notice you?" Yuugi's usually serene voice was strangely sharp. "Wake up, Ryou! You shouldn't have to put up with him! Do you _like_ not being able to walk? Is that it?"

"Stop it," Ryou muttered, blazing crimson. "I don't want to talk about it."

Yuugi sighed. "I can't do anything if you won't stand up for yourself."

"Ryou!"

Ryou flinched at his yami's bark. "I—I'd better—"

"Think for yourself, for once!" Yuugi said. "Don't just go running to him! You're not a dog, Ryou!"

"RYOU! Get your ass over here!"

"I—I have to—"Ryou flushed even darker, turning to run towards Bakura. He winced at the ear-piercing screech of the whistle hung on a knotted cod around Bakura's neck.

"What the hell have you been doing? Practice started ten minutes ago!"

Ryou sighed, accepting the hairband his yami offered and pulling his snowy locks back into a tail. "Sorry, coach."

Yuugi shook his head, glancing at Yami. "Bishounen just weren't meant to play football."


	3. MalikIsis angst

Chapter Three

Malik (or maybe Isis) angst

"Isis-sama, are you sure you don't need me to carry anything else?" Isis cast Rashid a withering glance and shifted her grocery bag on her hip possessively, as if determined to prove to him that she was capable of carrying her own things.

"No," she snapped waspishly. "You've got enough to handle already." And he did, his burly arms were weighted down with at least six bags, and four more were looped around his wrists, the lack of circulation mottling his dark skin to a deep purple. "Really," she said as he ignored her, reaching out for her bag. "I'm fine. And stop with this '-sama' stuff."

Rashid smiled. Or at least the tattoos on his face crinkled a bit; it might have been a smile. It was hard to tell...Rashid didn't have many facial expressions. "As you wish, Isis-sa—Isis."

Isis locked the car and lead the way to the apartment steps, stopping to bid old Mrs. Kenshi good afternoon. The old woman was mechanically sweeping the steps, a disapproving frown on her normally friendly face. "Is something wrong?" Isis asked, rummaging in her purse for the key. Mrs. Kenshi, a widow of nearly fifteen years, lived in the apartment directly below the Ishtars. Isis liked her; she was a kind, gentle woman, with a soft spot for children and cats. She baked them cookies every so often, and in return Isis would stop by every few days to chat with her. "You seem upset."

Mrs. Kenshi sighed and glanced up at the Ishtar's window. "They're at it again."

"Who?" Isis asked. "Malik and Marik? Again?"

Mrs. Kenshi shook her head hopelessly and went back to her sweeping. "They've been going for at least an hour. I couldn't take the pounding anymore, so I came out here to get some peace and quiet. Furball's awfully worked up about it, though. She doesn't like noise." She scratched the ears of a scraggly orange kitten that was sitting on the porch railing and it closed its eyes in contentment, purring.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Isis said, inwardly groaning. "I'll talk to them, I promise."

"Boys will be boys," the old lady said sagely. "I just wish they could keep it down a little."

Isis and Rashid exchanged worried glances as they dashed up the stairs. Isis fumbled awkwardly with the key and Rashid covered her small hand with his, steadying her. Isis gave her almost-brother a weak, worried half-smile and pushed open the door.

Isis dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and Rashid followed suit, massaging his arms where the bag handles had dug into flesh. "Malik?" Isis said, listening. She couldn't hear anything; the house was dead quiet.

"I don't hear them," she said. "They couldn't have gone out…" Mrs. Kenshi was blocking the door, surely she would have seen her brother and his lover leaving. It wasn't like the two could blend into a typical Japanese crowd, what with their skintight clothing, sandy blonde hair, caramel skin and tattoos.

"Isis-sama," Rashid said, and Isis turned around, ready to berate him for the unnecessary honorific when she saw what he was pointing to.

Half the counter looked like a hurricane had hit it. All the fruit and utensils had been swept hastily onto the floor, as if someone had been in a rush to clear a large area quickly, without any care for the consequences. Isis wondered for a moment if they'd been robbed, but then she took a good look at the tiles and gagged.

It was splattered with blood, great wide swaths of red stark against the white tile. Mingled in with the blood was a thick white substance that Isis really, _really_ didn't want to think about. She recognized it, of course. After all, she'd found it on the couch, the kitchen table, in the shower, in the hallway, and most disturbing of all, her own bed. "Overhormonal nymphomaniacs," she muttered. Rashid lay a comforting hand on her shoulder; he knew how worried she was.

The blood was what concerned her. She hadn't found blood anywhere in a very, very long time, and it couldn't mean anything good. True, Malik claimed that Marik had gotten over his anger management problems, but…well, it looked bad. Very bad.

Marik used to beat Malik so badly and rape him so brutally that he literally couldn't move. She'd driven her little brother's bruised, broken body to the hospital more times than she cared to remember, held him while he cried more times than she could count, and hidden him from a raging drunk Marik far, far too often. It had only been in the last year that something had changed, that Marik and Malik moved beyond a bloody, violent physical relationship to something more intimate, more safe. She'd even found them cuddling on the couch once, and Marik had sworn her to silence under pain of death.

Why had she let Marik stay? Her brother loved him, the idiot. He actually _loved_ this psychotic hallucination, although she had to admit that Marik was a little more substantial now that he had a body and all. No, it was for Malik that she let the yami live with them. She'd tried, tried to throw Marik out of the house after she'd come home one day to find Malik tied to his headboard, bleeding from gashes across his chest and between his legs and everywhere else a person could possibly bleed. There had been a fight, a huge argument that woke up everyone within a mile, most likely, and Marik had been gone for two weeks, during which Malik virtually wasted away. As dependent as yamis were on hikaris, the lights needed their darks. Without the other half of his soul, Malik lost any interest in life. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, just cried and begged Isis to let Marik back or curled up on his bed and stared at nothing for hours on end.

She'd relented finally and allowed him to come back. He'd been apologetic and it hadn't happened again—Malik's bruises faded, and to Isis's joy, no new ones replaced them. Finally, it seemed that everything was alright with her brother and his lover. Marik could even be sweet at times. He'd taken to Mrs. Kenshi's cat, Furball, and he'd been promised a kitten when Furball had her first litter. Life was good, would have been perfect if the boys didn't get down and dirty nearly every time they were alone, no matter where in the house they were. That was okay, though; Isis could live with that.

But now…she didn't know what to think.

"Isis-sama…" Rashid began. Isis closed her eyes.

"I can't do this anymore, Rashid," she whispered. "I can't handle watching my little brother destroy himself." Rashid hugged her and she buried her face in her brother's chest. "What do we do?"

And then a horrendous, outraged scream split the air, Malik's voice, coupled with a lower cry from Marik. Isis winced. "Ra…"

They were here. Marik was hurting Malik. Her little brother was in pain and she hadn't been here, hadn't been able to stop it…

"Isis?"

Her head snapped up. Malik was leaning against the doorjamb, licking the same thick white substance off his fingers. He was covered in crimson, his shirt was torn, and he was panting, obviously exhausted. Isis gathered her little brother into her arms. "He's got to go, Malik, I can't watch him do this to you…"

Malik blinked but let her hug him anyways. "What?"

Isis buried her face in his hair. "He promised he'd stop doing this to you. I thought it was over." She sniffled, blinking back tears. "I'm sorry I wasn't here…"

"That's…okay?" Malik said, completely bewildered.

Isis paused and sniffed experimentally. "Malik…why do you smell like ketchup?"

She looked over Malik's shoulder at Marik, who was dripping with white and red. In each respective hand he clutched a ketchup and mayonnaise squeeze bottle, open and nearly empty. He grinned at her. "She's not going to protect you," he snickered, squirting mayonnaise into Malik's hair. Malik screeched, the same pained cry Isis had heard earlier, and batted him away.

"Ma-_rik! _My hair!" Malik shook his head violently, sending the white substance flying, splattering both Isis and Marik. "That's not fair!"

Marik grinned and kissed his hikari on the nose. "All's far in love and war."

Malik pouted, trying to wipe the mayonnaise out of his precious sandy locks. "I don't think a food fight really qualifies as war…"


End file.
